


In The Light, Now You Can Sing

by queenofkadara



Series: The Griffon and the Halla: Blackwall & Arya Lavellan [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blackwall is a self-flagellating mess, But Lavellan adores him anyway, F/M, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Makeup Sex, Porn with Feelings, Slight canon divergence during the trial scene, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-04-30 10:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14494626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofkadara/pseuds/queenofkadara
Summary: The first time they kiss, Blackwall takes her by surprise on her balcony. The second time they kiss, Lady Lavellan takeshimby surprise near the barn.Time slides by on griffon's wings, and he loses track of their infinite kisses. They kiss too frequently to count, but he cherishes every moment like golden medals on a ceremonial coat. Arya Lavellan deserves so much better than a man like him, but as long as she wants him, he’s powerless to deny her.When the sins of Blackwall's past creep in on him like darkspawn, he decides that the best thing for Arya is to leave.To no one's surprise whatsoever, Arya Lavellan wholeheartedly disagrees.******************Also known as: Blackwall's besotted and angsty POV on his and Lavellan's relationship from first kiss to the end ofInquisition.





	1. Act I

every revolution  
starts and ends  
with her lips

\- paraphrased from "Milk and Honey", by Rupi Kaur

***************

The first time they kiss, Blackwall takes her by surprise.

He stands on the balcony admiring her before making his presence known. She’s waiting for him, pacing nervously like a caged lion, and he watches her footsteps with a bittersweet ache in his chest. He knows what he wants, but he also knows what’s best for her, and it’s certainly not an imposter wearing a thin veneer of morality. 

Lady Lavellan turns, and her eyes widen slightly as she catches sight of him. A broad smile breaks across her gamine face. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she quips. Her amethyst eyes hold a cheeky glint, and despite his inner turmoil, his shoulders relax at her humour. She knows why he’s here; she invited him. He wouldn’t have come otherwise.

He’s still not sure it was wise to come at all.

He takes a step toward her. He’s here to thank her and nothing more; that’s all he should do, it’s the only thing that’s right, but before he has time to cement his will, his heart surges ahead, racing towards its fondest desire, and he’s powerless to do anything but follow. 

“I just… had to see you,” he admits helplessly. He wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her against him. Her pupils dilate with excitement, and he takes a moment to admire the welcome parting of her lips before taking full advantage of their softness. 

Arya is sweet and pliant, sinking enthusiastically into his kiss. Her fingers grip his shoulder, her breasts press against his chest, and he blissfully savours the plumpness of her lower lip. The moment is perfect, _she’s_ perfect, and this is wrong, it’s wrong and he knows it… 

“It doesn’t feel wrong,” she breathes. The selfish part of his mind, the part he tries so hard to deny, agrees with her and clamours for him to follow suit. 

He gazes at her pleadingly. His resolve is crumbling under the shining approval in her gaze. He tried so hard to steel himself before coming here, but everything about her makes him weak in the knees: the sultry arch of her back, the sheen of his kiss on her lips, the _goodness_ that shines from her like veilfire… 

Blackwall is lost. He can’t do right by her. She’s knocked him hopelessly head over heels, and he’s unable to right himself. “I need you to end this,” he begs. “Because I can’t.” 

She grins and strokes his cheek fondly. “I’m not letting you go,” she says.

His heart quails with sorrow and swells with joy. She thinks he’s being foolish and noble, but she has no idea. He cares for her more than he’s ever cared for anyone, and he’s deceived her more terribly than he’s ever deceived anyone, and she has no idea. “You’ll regret this, my lady,” he warns. 

She cradles the back of his neck and kisses him hard. Her fingers are in his hair, her lips hot and branding, and he basks in the glory of her mouth. 

“Do you regret that?” she breathes. Her voice is a velvety whisper against his cheek, irresistible and addictive, and at long last, he capitulates. His mask is briefly lifted, his chains broken by her acceptance, and for a shining moment he lets himself _be_ himself.

He pulls her close with a hand on her hip and devours the sweetness of her lips. Her silken tongue is in his mouth, his teeth are on her lower lip, and he walks her backwards until they meet the sturdiness of the banister. 

He pens her against the banister and she gasps, a sound more melodious than Maryden’s most beautiful ballad. She presses her hips firmly to his, and her excitement bleeds into him, a streak of red-hot eagerness that brings his cock to full attention. He cradles her neck in one hand and explores the hem of her coat with the other, his fingers sliding inside, his thumb tracing along her ribs, his palm sculpting the curve of her waist. 

She’s panting, her eyes feverish with hunger as she arches into his touch. She reaches for his belt, her nimble fingers sliding over the buckle, and it’s all happening so fast: His belt hits the floor, hers is flung lazily over the arm of the couch, their coats are hastily discarded as they fall onto the bed, and Blackwall can’t quite believe his fortune. He came here tonight to thank her for supporting him, for being everything he wants to be, but _this_...

Arya stretches sinuously beneath him, half-clothed and tempting, and she’s _everything_ : the sight of her, the feel of her, it’s more than he dared to dream. She wraps one leg around his waist as he cradles her neck in his palm, and she tilts her chin up entreatingly. 

“Kiss me,” she commands. 

Blackwall eagerly complies. His cock is pulsing with lust, but his heart is pounding even harder. He’s a soldier at heart, a man who follows, and he’s never been happier to follow an order.

******************

The second time they kiss, she takes _him_ by surprise. 

He’s chopping wood in the courtyard, splitting logs carefully so he can carve a rocking griffon for the children. Small deeds for small people make a big difference - he and Sera are in agreement on this front - and this is the first time in years he’s had the time to use his hands for carving instead of killing.

She saunters towards him, hands in her pockets and a smile on her face. “Keeping busy, I see?” 

He straightens at her approach and hastily wipes the sweat from his brow. “My lady,” he greets her. “What can I do for you?” 

She raises her eyebrows, then gives a little laugh. “Oh. Nothing. I was just… checking in with everyone. Is there anything you need?” 

_You,_ he thinks instantly. A memory of the previous night springs to his mind: the golden expanse of her skin in the firelight, vibrant and shimmering like polished steel. His manhood stirs in his breeches, unfurling with interest at the fond memory, and he shifts awkwardly to hide his ardour. “No. Thank you,” he says gruffly. “These lodgings are much nicer than I’m used to. I’ve got everything I need.” 

She nods a polite acknowledgement, then sidles closer to him. Her hands are clasped behind her back in a businesslike manner, but a tiny smirk lingers on her lips.

She steps closer still, and the breeze wafts her unique scent towards him. She smells of crystal grace and warmth, and in his distraction, he almost misses her words. “ _Everything_ you need?” she murmurs. 

Her head is tilted flirtatiously, and her closeness is… more than that of colleagues. He surreptitiously looks around. The residents of Skyhold are milling about, talking and training, relaxing and working, and nobody in particular is looking at them, but by the Maker, she’s the _Inquisitor_. She’s the shining paragon of this organization, their proud sigil and their righteous sword, yet she’s standing so close to _him_. Blackwall isn’t sure what he expected, but this - her nearness in front of, well, everyone: this is not what he expected. 

He looks back down at her. Her gaze is warm and inviting, and her intention couldn’t be more clear unless it was inscribed across her forehead, but he still can’t quite believe it. Why him? Of all the respectable, honourable men in the Inquisition, why-? 

Suddenly she reaches up and cups his neck, just like she did last night, and before he can say a word of caution, her lips have taken his. 

He’s stunned. The Inquisitor is kissing him in public, in full view of the entire castle.

A surge of emotion squeezes his chest, and he wraps his arms around her waist, holding her close as though she can cure the bittersweet ache in his chest. But she can’t heal this wound; she’s the unwitting cause of it, after all, his sweetest poison and his most aching antidote, but he holds her close all the same. He’s hurting them both in the long run by letting this linger, but Blackwall knows the limits of his strength, and now that he’s tasted her infinite sweetness, he’s incapable of going back. 

A long, utopian moment later, she pulls away and smiles slowly at him. He gazes at her face, drinking in her fine elven features and the enticing flush of her lips. 

Reluctantly she steps back, squeezing his fingers once before finally releasing his hand. “We’ll talk later,” she says. 

Her tone is light and professional, but her violet eyes are glittering with intent, and he feels his cheeks warming with pleasure. He doesn’t understand her interest in him and he suspects he never will, but the unspoken promise in her words is enough to wipe the incredulity from his mind for now.

He inclines his head courteously. “As you wish, my lady.” 

She grins, a flash of blinding humour that steals his breath for a moment. “Always so polite, Ser Blackwall,” she teases. Then she saunters away. 

He smiles foolishly as he watches her departure. He picks up his axe and glances around the courtyard once more. He’s a beacon of happiness, and it feels like everyone should be staring at his vulgar glow, but aside from a passing stonemason who throws him a hearty wink, no one seems to be paying him much attention. 

Blackwall releases a soft breath. It’s for the best, really, if they don’t notice her fondness for him; the Inquisitor deserves to keep better company than a man like him. Besides, if people start to notice them, somebody might notice _him_. He’s travelled alone all this time for a reason, after all. 

He goes back to splitting logs one by one, but he can’t stop the smile from lighting his face. _We’ll talk later,_ she said. 

He wonders how long he’ll have to wait.

*******************

The third time they kiss, the entire tavern takes him by surprise. 

It’s late evening, and Blackwall is enjoying an ale with Sera and the Iron Bull. The tavern is more lively than usual tonight: word of Sera’s playful pranks on the Inquisitor’s advisors are spreading through the castle like wildfire, along with a rumour that the Inquisitor herself played a role in Sera’s escapades. 

“Was it really the boss’s idea to dump a bucket of water on Josephine’s head?” Bull asks with a hint of disbelief.

“Of course not, you lump,” Sera riposts. “It was _my_ idea. Lavellan just pointed out the door, filled the bucket, and put it in place. Me and her, we’re brains and brawn, yeh?” 

Blackwall smiles into his stein. Sera is the only person who would ever describe the slender Lady Lavellan as ‘brawny’. 

Sera elbows him roughly. “What are _you_ grinning about, you?” 

“Your clever practical jokes, of course,” he says mildly. “What else?”

Sera snorts boisterously and downs her third shot of Abyssal peach. “Yeah right. I see the way you look at her.” Sera makes an obnoxious kissing noise until Blackwall rolls his eyes and elbows her in return. 

“She’s right,” Bull deadpans. “Everyone sees.” 

This gets Blackwall’s attention. “They do?” he says, with a hint of dismay. Lady Lavellan would be better off if they kept their affair quiet. By the Maker, he should have told her to keep him an arm’s length away… 

Bull frowns. “Of course. Your desire for sex with the boss is so potent I can smell it. You should follow your instincts, you know. It’s healthy. Take her to bed. Or on the table. Or against a wall. I can lend you some items to spice things up-” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Blackwall interrupts. His face is burning with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. He’s not adverse to a little ribald sparring among friends, but this is different; it’s Lady Lavellan, and it’s more than just _sex_ \- or at least, it is for him. “Don’t talk about the Inquisitor that way,” he scolds. 

Bull frowns more deeply. “Talk about her in what way? She wants to have sex with you, too. Maybe it’s _you_ who should be tied to the bed. Seems to me she’s the more dominant one.”

Sera cackles at this, and Blackwall squinches his face and hastily gulps from his half-empty stein without responding. The Iron Bull’s words are vigorously stirring his imagination, and suddenly he can see it all too clearly: he’s stretched on her ridiculous Orlesian bed, stripped to the waist and tied to the bedposts, and his lady is rising above him-

The tavern door opens, and Blackwall jumps guiltily as a clamour of voices announces the identity of the newcomer. 

“Your Worship!”

“It’s the Herald!”

He turns to look, and there she is, her Dalish tattoos creased by the broadness of her smile. She nods to everyone who greets her and addresses most of them by name, accepting their pats on her back and their enthusiastic shaking of her hand. 

She meets his eye and shoots him a tiny wink, and he can’t help but grin in return. 

“Hopeless sod,” Sera snickers. 

Blackwall barely hears her. He’s too busy watching as the Inquisitor makes her way towards their table. She’s like a leaf caught in a river, floating easily and gently through the crowd, but just as easily snagged by everyone’s bids for attention. 

The Iron Bull eventually moves away to join the Chargers. Sera remains beside him, eating plate after plate of chips and chattering to him and to the other patrons, but Blackwall only listens with half an ear. He watches as the Inquisitor drifts closer, carried by the conversations of those around her until finally she arrives at his side.

She sits beside him with a smile. Her knee presses comfortably against his as she takes her seat. “Blackwall, Sera. How are you?”

Sera swallows a huge mouthful of potato and speaks before he has a chance. “You two aren’t going to get all handsy, are you? Should I be taking my supper somewhere else in case you make me sick?” 

Blackwall shoots Sera a stern look, but Lady Lavellan simply smirks and leans back as she sips her wine. “If you do have someplace else to be, don’t let me stop you.”

Sera snorts a laugh. “Trying to get rid of me, right? Nice try. I’ve no problem staying where I’m not wanted. It’s where I do my best work.” 

The Inquisitor blinks innocently. “Of course I don’t want you to leave! In fact, to show how much I appreciate you…” She stands and cranes her neck to look over the crowd. “Maryden?” she calls, then jerks her head in Sera’s direction.

Sera’s eyes widen to the size of her plate. “No,” she blurts. “Not that stupid song-” 

Maryden strums her lyre, and to Blackwall’s complete surprise, the Inquisitor breaks into song: 

_Sera was never an agreeable girl_  
_Her tongue tells tales of rebellion._  
_But she was so fast and quick with her bow,_  
_No one quite knew where she came from._

Blackwall stares at his lady in slack-jawed wonder. He had no idea she could sing, but her voice is wonderful, easily as clear as Maryden’s. Some of the nearby patrons hoot encouragement, and someone starts to clap, and soon the entire tavern is clapping in time to Sera’s song. 

Sera’s mouth falls open with dismay. “You pisshead!” she whines at the Inquisitor. 

Lavellan grins and waves an arm encouragingly, and the tavern rings with voices as the majority of the occupants belt out the chorus in various degrees of drunkenness.

_She would always like to say:_  
_‘Why change the past when you can own this day?’_  
_Today she will fight to keep her way_  
_She’s a rogue and a thief and she’ll tempt your fate._

Finally Sera shoves her plate away and runs off, much to Blackwall’s amusement. He grins up at Lavellan as she continues to sing along with the rest of the tavern. Pubgoers grin and pat her on the back, humans and elves and dwarves alike, soldiers and spies and stonemasons, and Blackwall marvels at her many sparkling facets. She’s the Inquisitor, their leader and their symbol, but she’s also Arya Lavellan, a Dalish archer who plays pranks and remembers the serving staff’s names and sings in pubs. She commands loyalty, but she also fosters love. It’s what Blackwall once sought to be as a captain, and perhaps he achieved it at some point, but he lost sight of what was important. He was selfish and shortsighted, blinded by his own greed and pride. 

Blackwall - the _real_ Blackwall - set him on the right path, but Lavellan is the one who guides him forth. She’s a glowing torch lighting his path, her crystalline voice ringing with everything that’s good in this damned world. Where once he would have crashed hopelessly against the shores of his own shame, she stands as a lighthouse in the darkness of his life, brightening the shadows of his past with helpful deeds and cheeky jokes. He was trying so hard to be a better man, but with her example to guide him, it’s no longer a trial; it’s a privilege, one he’ll passionately follow to his death. 

He stares at her, all amusement drowned away by the overwhelming swollen feeling in his chest. Lady Lavellan is clapping along with the rest of the tavern, no longer singing but grinning widely as she listens to everyone else’s song. Her cheeks are flushed with warmth and wine, and she sways from side to side in time with the melody. 

Sera was right, he realizes. He’s hopeless. He’s utterly and completely in love. 

The song draws to a close, and the tavern erupts into applause and cheering. Lavellan lifts her half-empty glass to the room at large, and the resultant cheer makes his ears ring. She sips her wine, then smirks down at him. 

“So that worked well,” she hollers over the noise. “We’re finally alone.”

He smiles, though his swollen heart feels like it’s stuck in his throat. He looks around pointedly at the crowded pub. “In this place? I wouldn’t call this ‘alone’,” he shouts back. 

She smiles more broadly, revealing the charming dimple in her left cheek. “I’ll take my moments where I can get them,” she yells. Then she grabs his coat collar and pulls. 

He rises to his feet, powerless to resist her grip on his coat, and suddenly she’s kissing him hungrily, her hands fisted in his collar and pulling him close. The taste of her is intoxicating, the fruit of red wine and the honey of her tongue, and he shamelessly revels in her for a shining moment. Then, to his utter shock, the pub explodes into applause, even more boisterous than before, the noise so loud it almost shakes the rafters. 

They’re cheering for them, for him and his lady together, and he’s gobsmacked by the approval. The Inquisitor is so far above him, both in rank and in deed, but from the level of hooting and hollering, no one seems to care. 

Finally she pulls away with a tinkling laugh, and he stares at her in complete adoration like the hopeless sod that he is. “You know what this means,” he murmurs to her. “The pub has seen us kissing. It’ll be all over the castle by morning.” 

She slides her arms around his neck and presses her lips to his ear. “Let them talk,” she whispers. Her lips trail gently across his bearded cheek, and then she’s kissing him again.

Her lips are gentle and soft this time, and he clutches her close like priceless treasure. The Inquisitor has publicly marked him as her own, and it’s like a weight has lifted from his shoulders. With this one open display of affection, she’s forced him to discard the yoke of self-disgust that was holding him back from her, and now as she presses herself against him, he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty. 

Blackwall is not the man she thinks he is. But he loves her so fucking much, and in this glowing moment of complete happiness, he can almost convince himself that it’s enough.

*********************

After the blissful night at the tavern, Blackwall loses track of their infinite kisses. 

Arya’s heart is an open book, and he’s blessed to be the only reader. She’s generous and free with her fondness; she visits him at the stables every day for no reason other than to kiss, her eyes glowing with mischief as he crowds her against the column and leans in close. 

They kiss too frequently to count, but he cherishes every moment like golden medals on a ceremonial coat. Her affection is easy and casual, and she shows it in a million different ways: gentle stroking of his back when they sit together at the tavern, a teasing tweak of his beard when Dorian pokes fun at him, a flirtatious hand on his chest when she asks him to bash down a crumbling wall. It happens dozens of times a day, but Blackwall notices every touch with a leaping of excitement in his belly. 

They spend every night tangled together in her bed, and Blackwall still marvels at how naturally it happened. He didn’t dare ask to join her, and she didn’t explicitly ask him to stay, yet here they are night after night, her naked body sprawled across his chest and her eyelashes fluttering against his skin as she walks the Fade in her dreams. As the moon shines through the window, he runs his fingers through her pixie-short hair and silently recites his love like a pious man reciting a rosary.

He strokes her silken-skinned shoulder with his thumb. _I adore you,_ he thinks. _I’m not the man you think I am, but I love you so fucking much._ In these perfect moments of peace, he can almost convince himself the truth isn’t important, and that love will be enough.

Their days sail by in an incessant flow of activity. Blackwall accompanies her almost everywhere at her command. They close deep road fissures in the Storm Coast, and he slashes through darkspawn so her arrowheads can bite deep. They muddle through the Fallow Mire, and he shoves the undead away from her so she can explode them with her arrows. He stands proudly at her shoulder as she convinces agent after agent to join their cause. In every place she deigns to bring him, he’s the shield defending her bow and the brawn behind her silver tongue.

Then they go to the Winter Palace for Empress Celene’s ‘peace talks’, and it’s almost his undoing. 

Blackwall stands alone in the Hall of Heroes and minds his own business. He’s never been comfortable at these kinds of parties, but living under a stolen name has made him even more averse to such things. When some drunken noble almost recognizes him, he’s brusque and dismissive, but this only seems to foster the noble’s curiosity. Blackwall is a breath away from threatening the poncy fool when he hears her voice. 

“Ser Blackwall, what a pleasure. It’s been too long.”

A surge of panic steals his breath. Her jocular tone is his favourite sound in the world, but at this moment it’s the last thing he wants to hear. 

She sidles up to him and listens curiously as the noble mumbles about more drinks and lurches away, then turns her curious gaze on him. He breathes slow and deep to regain his composure as she asks about his alleged Silverite Wings of Valour. He’s too rattled to come up with proper answers, and he watches with increasing anxiety as her brow creases in a frown. 

He shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake. He should have found an excuse to stay at Skyhold. She’s cottoned on, and his time is up. But Arya surprises him by taking his hand. 

“Don’t listen to Josephine,” she says gently. “You don’t have to be nervous. Everything will be fine.” She winks. “I’m extremely charming, in case you didn’t notice. The court adores me already, and all I’ve done is walk through the doors.” 

She’s comforting him. She’s the one under scrutiny, the heathen elf that every critical eye is watching, and she’s comforting _him_. 

Blackwall swallows hard. Love and guilt are warring in his belly, rendering him nauseous, and he can’t find the words to answer. His lies were easier when he didn’t know her, but she’s no longer just a pretty archer with a righteous title. She’s the Inquisitor, his Arya, his leader and his lover, and she deserves the truth. 

She blinks guilelessly up at him, ignorant to his unspoken angst. “Before the night is through, will you save a dance for me?” she asks. 

Blackwall gazes into her lovely face. His chest is fit to collapse under the weight of his own deception. She deserves so much better than him, but as long as she wants him, he’s powerless to deny her. “All of them,” he says seriously. “Every dance is yours.” 

She beams at him, then stands on tip-toe and lifts her chin. The kiss she bestows upon him is tender and light, an infinite comfort in this duplicitous place, and he hates himself for enjoying it.

*****************

The rest of the night passes with minimal fuss - at least by Inquisition standards.

Florianne is dragged away by the guards, snivelling into her lacy collar. Lady Lavellan persuades the Empress and the Duke and the elven spymaster to make nice. When it’s all over, Blackwall finds the Inquisitor on the balcony. As he approaches, he hears her heavy sigh. 

He steps up beside her, and Arya looks at him. The corners of her tattooed eyes crinkle with welcome, but her face is pale with fatigue. “Ser Blackwall,” she says. 

He inclines his head. “My lady. I’m surprised to find you out here all alone.” 

Her smile widens slightly, and she leans against his shoulder and sighs again. “It’s been a long night,” she says quietly. 

He presses his lips to her temple. “You work too hard,” he murmurs. “I can see wanting to get away from it all.” 

She lifts her chin and bats her eyes at him. “Away from everything except you, my gallant Warden.” 

He smiles, but his heart squeezes painfully. He should tell her; it’s a perfect opening for the truth. But how would he say it? Where would he start? _Now that you mention it, I’m not a Warden at all…_

He clears his throat, then steps back from the balustrade and holds out his hand. “Before we leave: may I have this dance, Lady Lavellan?”

She beams at him, her amethyst eyes bright with amusement, and takes his hand without hesitation. “I didn’t know you danced.”

“I did once. In another life,” he says. He pulls her close and inhales her floral scent. 

“Hmmm. Another life, you say?” she murmurs. Her voice is dreamy and languid, but her question is genuine.

He steels himself to tell her. He can start with his name. That’s easy enough, isn’t it? 

He takes a deep breath. He opens his mouth. And she begins to hum. 

Her voice is soft and breathy, drifting with perfect melody across his neck, and the words fade into nothing at the back of his tongue. 

He can’t do it. Not tonight. She’s relaxed and happy, and she’s earned this rest. Her lips caress his neck, a featherlight brushing at the edge of his beard, and a shiver of pleasure trickles down his throat and into his belly to pool in his groin. 

She deserves to know the truth. It’s the least he can do for the woman he loves. Instead, he turns his head and meets her questing lips. 

He’ll tell her tomorrow.


	2. Act II

A week goes by. 

Arya visits him in the stables during her sparse free time, and they chat idly about his woodworking and what she should name her giant nugs. And he doesn’t tell her the truth. 

At night when they return to Skyhold from their travels, she presses herself against him, his naked thigh snugly ensconced between her own. She whispers about her life in the forest with her clan, and he tells little tales of Liddy, tiny bites of his former life that are small and safe to share. But he doesn’t tell her the truth. 

She bucks beneath him, their fingers intertwined as they gasp together in their release. Afterwards, as she runs her fingers through his damp hair, she asks him to tell her stories. 

The words are pressing at the back of his teeth. They grow hotter and more desperate with every passing day, but he can’t bring himself to release them: he’s far too happy. He’s not the man she thinks he is - he’s selfish and cowardly, and he’s nobody’s hero - but he loves her so fucking much, and he can’t tell her the truth. 

*************

They travel to Crestwood to meet with Warden Stroud.

Blackwall has no good reason not to accompany her, so he readily agrees when she requests his presence. They speak with Hawke and Stroud, and Lavellan turns to him like he has insights to give her. He prevaricates and dissembles until she nods with satisfaction, but it feels like needles are poking his heart. 

The Western Approach beckons, and they investigate Stroud’s lead on the Warden mages. A writhing discomfort settles heavily on his shoulders as they sink more deeply into the Wardens’ internal strife, and with a slow creeping of dread, he realizes that he should have told her the truth weeks ago. The deeper they sink into Warden activity, the more precarious his lies become, like a teetering rockslide that’s an inch away from crashing.

Another week slides by, and Lavellan works from sunrise to sundown with her advisors to plan for the assault on Adamant Fortress. She curls against his chest at night, her undereyes dark with fatigue. He strokes her chestnut hair and rubs the knots from her shoulders until she falls into an exhausted sleep. 

He can’t tell her the truth, not now. She’s far too busy, and she has more important things to worry about. 

Days later, they march on Adamant Fortress. He’s the aegis protecting her from demons and the blade that tears her foes apart. He stands strong and takes the hits that are meant for her. In the heart of the fortress, they find themselves facing a rift and a ring of Warden mages. Erimond is smug, but Clarel’s face is creased with uncertainty, and the Wardens are scared. 

A chase ensues. They dodge the blasts from Corypheus’s archdemon, and Clarel dies a hero’s death when she blasts the archdemon in return. 

And then they fall into the Fade. 

An hour later - or maybe a day, or just a minute, Blackwall isn’t sure - Lavellan tears through the rift with the mark on her palm, and they return to Adamant Fortress one Warden short. 

Blackwall’s heart is heavy with dismay. The Wardens have lost so much already: blood sacrifices, their Knight-Commander, their damned reputation, and now Stroud. When the Inquisitor orders the Wardens into exile, it’s like a punch to his already winded gut. 

“Your Worship,” he says. “I would stay, and continue our fight. _If_ you allow it.” 

He can’t shave the stiffness from his voice. The Nightmare is too recent, and the Wardens’ failure too raw. But a thread still tugs in his chest as her violet eyes widen in alarm. 

Her voice is calm as she replies. “Of course,” she says. “I have never doubted your loyalty, Blackwall.” 

He inclines his head curtly and turns away to help the remaining Wardens to gather their injured. From the corner of his eye, he watches as she debriefs quickly with Cullen and Hawke, then strides toward him. 

Her face is stern and her steps authoritative, and despite his anger, he straightens and folds his hands behind his back. He’s a soldier at heart, and she’s the Inquisitor, and everything about her mien is screaming for him to obey. But she shocks him by cupping his face in her hands and kissing him hard. 

He’s instantly thrown off by the ferocity of her affection. Without thinking, he slides one arm around her waist and sinks into the warmth of her kiss. 

Eventually she pulls away and glares at him. “I would _never_ make you leave,” she says fiercely. “You’re a good man, Blackwall. You’re my shield and shelter, do you understand?” 

His lingering disapproval instantly melts away, leaving an aching guilt in its place. “Yes, my lady,” he replies huskily. He isn’t the man she thinks he is - he’s good at guarding and nothing else - but he loves her so fucking much, and he’s powerless to do anything but kiss her rosy lips.

But for the first time, Arya’s kiss isn’t enough to scald away his guilt.

*****************

A few days pass. Lavellan travels without him, accompanying Dorian to Redcliffe for some kind of family meeting and taking the Iron Bull to the Storm Coast, but for once, Blackwall is relieved to be left alone. 

He’s slept poorly since they returned from Adamant. He lies in Arya’s bed at night, her hair tickling his chin and her warmth beneath his palms, but the Wardens’ departing backs march away behind his closed eyelids, and Stroud’s sacrifice haunts him in the early hours of the morning.

_It’s not right,_ he thinks. It’s not the Inquisitor’s decision he questions; he understands her reasoning, though he doesn’t like it. It’s the guilty injustice of it all. The Wardens only ever meant to be good, to _do_ good, and their legacy ended in disgrace. Yet here _he_ stands at the Inquisitor’s side, and here he sleeps in the Inquisitor’s bed, his entire identity steeped in bitter lies but unscathed by controversy or shame. 

He can’t stop thinking about his past. His men’s faces flash through his mind one by one, like macabre tarot cards at some cheap fortune teller, but Blackwall takes these omens seriously. Their blood is on his hands, theirs and that of their victims, and it’s like a hastily stitched wound has split wide: the remains of his past are there, ugly and infected, and if he has any respect for the stolen title of Warden, he needs to cure this illness. Seeds of his sins have lain dormant in his chest for years, but they bloom to life now, and his rationalizations and feeble excuses are insufficient to cull them back.

Then one day, while perusing the announcement board in the tavern, a piece of news catches his eye: the execution of Cyril Mornay, taking place in Val Royeaux within the week. 

An ice-cold weight drops into his belly as he reads the notice. Given his preoccupations for the past few days, he can only take it as a sign of fate. He can’t run anymore. He’s finally been snared by the cruel trap of truth: he’s been living on borrowed time all along. He’s shamelessly stolen snatches of time from his Dalish lover, but unbeknownst to her, it can never be returned. 

Blackwall agonizes in the barn for the rest of the day. He tries to finish the rocking griffon, and he tries to brush the horses, but he’s unable to concentrate; he needs every scrap of his will to build the fortress around his heart. 

He polishes the Warden-Commander badge until it glows as brightly as her anchor. As the afternoon sun fades into gloaming, he waits for her to visit, badge securely tucked in his pocket. 

He knows what he needs to do. He just needs to bolster his courage to do what must be done. 

******************

In the end, Blackwall takes the coward’s way out, and the kiss he doesn’t take is the one he misses most.

He stares at his elven lover as she sleeps. Moonlight shines through the barn’s windows onto her bare body, dyeing her skin from its usual burnished gold to a pale pearlescence. Her face is peaceful in slumber, her short hair in damp disarray from their exertions, and he prays fervently to the Maker that she’ll have peace without him. 

She’ll forget him someday. Blackwall is not the man she thinks he is, after all. Another man will catch her heart, a better man than him, and she’ll be washed clean of his memory. 

His throat aches with grief as he watches her breasts rise and fall with easy slumber. He desperately wants to kiss her goodbye, to taste the bliss of her lips one last time, but he loves her so fucking much, and she deserves a better man than him. In this bitter moment of parting - a moment she didn’t know was coming - he can almost convince himself that she’ll forgive and forget. 

***********************

He rides for Val Royeaux. 

He forces himself to think of the soldiers he abandoned in Orlais. He thinks of their loyalty, their unquestioning faith in his judgment, the way he ran and left them all to die in disgrace because of his orders. He forces himself to remember their faces and their camaraderie. He gorges himself on guilt until the idea of a rightful death is palatable in comparison. 

He forces himself to think of them, because the alternative is to think of _her_. 

Every breath he takes is torture, the grief like a knife below his ribs. With every step away from Skyhold, he regrets the kiss he didn’t give and the words of love he didn’t say. Lady Lavellan deserved better than to be left alone in the night; she deserved better than a tumble in the barn and a paltry note. 

_That’s why it’s good that I’m gone,_ he tells himself. _She deserves better, and she’ll only have it without me._ He knows his Arya, knows her moods and her ways, and he knows that she’ll be absolutely furious that he left. But anger is good; it’s what he wants for her. Anger will keep her away from him. 

He arrives in Val Royeaux barely in time to witness the sentencing. He jogs toward the gallows and repeats a list of his men’s names in his head; it helps to drown out the haunting echoes of her laughter. 

They read out the sentence for Cyril Mornay, and Blackwall takes a deep breath. His time has come, and he is ready. 

Thom Rainier strides towards the gallows without hesitation, and only now does he allow the memories to flood his mind. She comes in flashes, shining moments of the everyday that he didn’t cherish enough while he had them: the way she dragged her fingers through her hair when she was frustrated, her playful insult wars with Sera, the way she would rub his earlobe gently between her fingers when they lay talking idly in her bed. 

He takes a deep breath and remembers the precise amethyst shade of her eyes. _I love you,_ he thinks. He mounts the steps to the gallows and barks for the executioner to stop. 

A gasp rises from the crowd, and above it, a dreaded and beloved voice rings out clear as a bell. “ _Blackwall!_ ”

His heart sinks like a stone. Her voice is his favourite sound in the world, and he’s never been less pleased to hear it. He closes his eyes and prays to the Maker for strength. He’d hoped to be here sooner, that this whole sorry business would be done before the Inquisitor could arrive. He rode as fast as he could and he only just arrived in time, and some irrational, furious part of his mind wonders if Dorian or Solas used magic to get her here faster. And yet, some part of him isn’t surprised. His Arya is the most passionate and stubborn woman he’s ever met, and he can only blame himself for thinking she wouldn’t come. 

But the fortress he built around his heart stands strong, and he leans on it for support as he finds her lovely face in the crowd. She’s pale as death, her violet eyes huge with distress, and the remorse almost chokes him. He did this to her. By giving in to his selfish love for her, by binding her with the chains of her own affection, he’s caused her this pain. The only thing he can do now is set her free. 

He swallows the lump in his throat and announces his lies. He watches as Arya’s eyes grow even larger in the pallor of her face. Dorian grips her hand, his face slack with shock; Solas is glaring fiercely, and Sera is shouting and flapping her hands in agitation, but Arya’s face is all he can see. 

Thom Rainier drinks her in greedily as he’s dragged away in chains. He imprints her face on his mind: her eyebrows tight with consternation, her lips leeched of their usual scarlet flush. It’s a harrowing image, one he never wanted to see, but he forces himself to remember her this way. _This_ is what Thom Rainier brings; he’s the herald of misery, the giver of grief. It was a farce to think he could ever make her happy, and if her shock and dismay is the last thing he sees, it’s all that he deserves. 

******************

She visits him in prison.

His own flare of anger takes him by surprise. Why won’t she leave him behind? He’s not the man she thought he was - he’s Thom Rainier, a murderer and a deserter - and he loves her so fucking much, and he’s not worth a second of her time. “You weren’t supposed to find me,” he tells her angrily. “You were supposed to just think I was gone. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

She narrows her eyes. “You mean you didn’t want me to know the real you.” 

Gone is his distressed elven lover. She’s all Inquisitor now, her expression forbidding as she interrogates him about his past. 

He’s a soldier at heart - a tainted one, a traitorous one, but a soldier nonetheless - and he can’t resist her implacable authority. He answers her questions honestly with his head hung low. She burns with anger and purpose, that passion for justice that he’s always found so compelling, and now that her righteous focus is directed at him, he can barely stand to look at her. 

Eventually, she runs out of questions and falls silent. He lifts his eyes to her face. Her expression is flat, but he can see the tension in her clenched jaw as she stares at him through the cold bars of his cell. 

_I love you,_ he thinks. “There’s nothing more to talk about,” he grunts.

She lifts her chin haughtily, then turns on her heel and stalks away. 

He watches her go. _Good,_ he thinks. The Inquisitor has finally realized who she’s been wasting her affections on, and she’s done exactly what he hoped she would do: she’s left him here to die. It’s just and fair, and it’s exactly what a man like him deserves.

His eyes feel hot. He sits heavily on the floor of his cell. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and waits for the end.

******************

He doesn’t know what favours she called in or whose palms got greased, but before he understands what’s happening, he’s freed from prison, shoved onto a horse and forced back to Skyhold under guard by Cullen’s soldiers. 

The Inquisitor sits on her throne and stares coldly down at him as Josephine shakily introduces him - the _real_ him - to the crowd of onlookers. He ignores the whispers and glares at Lavellan. She should have left him. He’s made his peace and accepted his wrongs, and she has more important things to do than waste her valuable time on a murderer. 

“Josephine’s reputation is tarnished now. The world will learn how you’ve used your influence. They’ll know the Inquisition is corrupt,” he accuses. He’s being a hypocrite and he knows it, but he’s just so _angry_. She wouldn’t have brought him back here unless she thought he was something worth saving, and she’s _wrong._ He breathes hard through his nose as he awaits her response.

She rises from her throne and glares back at him. “You left me no choice,” she snaps, her voice ringing authoritatively through the hall. “When one of the Inquisition's staunchest warriors leaves without a good reason, you can bet I will hunt him down.” She pauses, and he watches her chest rise as she inhales slowly, then speaks in a more measured tone. “Thom Rainier: you lied to the Inquisition. You lied to _me_ ,” she grits. “But a man is more than his words. You’ve shown your mettle with your deeds. By the power of this Inquisition, you have your freedom.” 

A buzz of interest goes up from the crowd, and he gapes at her in horror. He should be punished. Maker’s balls, she should be _punishing_ him. “It cannot be as simple as that,” he protests.

“It’s not,” she retorts. “You’re free to atone as the man you are, not the traitor you thought you were or the Warden you pretended to be.” She lifts her chin stubbornly. “I know who you really are. Keep on being that man.” 

He gazes at her with abject gratefulness. Vindication is not what he expected and it’s not what he deserves, but Lady Lavellan has given it to him all the same.

Blackwall can’t speak. His heart is in his mouth, pulsing at the tip of his tongue, but he can’t speak it now. Arya is the finest thing that’s ever happened to him, and he won’t lay his heart bare like this, chained like a common criminal with everyone gawking. She deserves so much better than this. 

She watches him for a moment longer, then descends the dais. She reaches up and briefly cups his cheek in her palm. 

He closes his eyes and swallows hard past the lump in his throat. Her caress is quick, but it makes his heart leap in his chest. 

“We’ll talk later,” she says, then walks away. 

For the second time in as many days, he watches her go. This time, however, her departing back isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to him; it’s a symbol of hope. 

Cullen’s men unlock his cuffs as the crowd drifts away, and Josephine briefly stops on her way back to her office. “Good luck,” she says quietly. 

He murmurs his thanks and respectfully bows his head, then trudges off towards the stables. 

_We’ll talk later,_ Lavellan said, and he can’t decide whether to dread or to anticipate her eventual arrival.

He wonders how long he’ll have to wait.

*******************

A few hours later, she finds him in the stables and nearly immolates him with her towering rage. 

She slaps him twice and _screams_ at him, and he kisses her more passionately than he ever has before. Somehow, his kiss seems to work; her fingers pull fiercely at his clothing. “You’ll tell me the whole truth. I want to know everything,” she threatens. 

Half-heartedly he reaches down to stall her hands, even as a perverse flare of desire sparks to life in his belly. “Arya, wait. Are we talking, or…?” 

“Not right now,” she snaps, then grabs the back of his neck and kisses him hard.

Her mouth is absolute, unequivocal _bliss_ , and he freefalls into her heat. He shouldn’t enjoy this, he _shouldn’t,_ but… Arya knows the truth now. She knows the ugliest corners of his soul, and still she’s here, her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and by the Maker, he loves her so fucking much.

It’s not until she leaves the stables an hour later that Blackwall realizes they didn’t talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If you’re wondering why I glossed over Lavellan confronting Blackwall after the trial, it’s because I wrote a smutty/angsty oneshot about it few weeks ago. Please feel free to check it out [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14151414)


	3. Act III

He sleeps in the barn for two agonizing, lonely nights. He wants nothing more than to hold her sleeping body close, but he also wants to give her space. 

On the third night, she wanders into the barn and folds her arms. “Are you coming to bed?” she demands. 

“Yes, my lady,” he says immediately. He follows her obediently back into the castle, feeling almost weak with relief.

After this, things return to a semblance of normal, but it is a _semblance._ There’s been a shift, a slight misaligning, and it rubs him wrong, like the creeping unreality of the Fade. 

He accompanies her almost everywhere at her command. In the Emerald Graves, he draws the giants’ attention so she can poison them with her arrows. At the Forbidden Oasis, he boosts her up the steeper crevices and shields her against the giant spiders. She jokes with him and points out interesting sights, but she does this with Sera and Bull and Dorian as well. 

They sleep together every night, her back pressed to his chest and his arm around her waist. She entwines her fingers with his to keep him close, but he can’t help but notice that she doesn’t curl against him anymore. She doesn’t tuck her head under his chin and throw her leg across his body. She curls passively on her side, waiting for him to enfold her. 

She visits him in the barn every day. They chat about little things like they did before, but her laughter doesn’t come as easy. She asks questions about his past and about his knowledge of the Wardens, and he answers them truthfully. But he doesn’t say the most important words, the ones burning his heart to ash.

They fuck most nights like they did before, but her other touches are lacking, and it’s these everyday touches that he misses most desperately: her flirtatious hand on his chest, her tweaking of his beard, her gentle stroking of his back. 

They don’t kiss nearly as often as they used to, and he feels emptier for it. 

The worst part is the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes he half-wakes and finds her sprawled across him like she used to do. Her inhibitions fall away in sleep, and he understands that _this_ \- the unconscious embrace of her sleeping body - this is what she truly wants, but her waking mind is afraid. 

Blackwall has lost her trust, and she’s afraid he’ll hurt her again. He wants to show her that it’ll never happen again - he would sooner die than hurt her again - but although he tries his best, he doesn’t know how to fix it.

*****************

Their travels are put on hold as the situation the Arbor Wilds grows more urgent. Lavellan spends her time with the advisors and Morrigan, planning for the big battle. 

Blackwall spends his time training with Bull’s Chargers and sitting on the roof eating disgusting cookies with Sera. He works on the rocking griffon, and he helps Master Dennet with the horses. All the while, he ruminates on how to repair the damage he’s done. 

“You have a lot of feelings,” Cole says.

Blackwall jumps in startelement and almost drops his screwdriver. He glares in the direction of the stables’ upper level. “Get down from there,” he growls. He turns resolutely back to his workbench and jumps again. 

Cole is crouched on the table, a bowl of crushed mint in his hands. “Words hang back, pressing, pushing, pounding at the dam. He wants to tell her, but he’s afraid. What if the words don’t match? What if it’s not the same for her?” Cole fixes him with that eerie pale-eyed stare. “The flood in Crestwood was bad. It hurt people. But she needs this flood to heal.” 

Blackwall scowls at the spirit-boy. “Go bother Solas, won’t you?” he mutters. He pulls a piece of sandpaper out from under Cole’s foot and starts sanding down the wooden toy. 

“All right,” Cole says serenely. He slides off the table and ambles away, and Blackwall wonders irritably why Cole ever bothers to walk anywhere if he can just appear at will. 

He tries to distract himself by smoothing out the rougher edges of the rocking griffon, but Cole’s words twist and turn in his mind. The spirit-boy speaks in tongues most of the time, but for once, his words aren’t completely nonsensical.

*******************

Days go by. Dark circles take residence under Lavellan’s eyes. Blackwall asks about the battle plans for the Arbor Wilds, and she explains to him in detail; he makes humble suggestions about combat strategy, and she takes them back to Cullen. But he doesn’t say the words that are swelling at the back of his throat and threatening to smother him. 

The Inquisitor and her advisors finalize their plans, and they make the announcement to everyone: they move on the Arbor Wilds in two days’ time. 

Lavellan paces in the bedroom late that night. A cloud of nervous energy buzzes around her, as though Sera has thrown a grenade of anxious bees at her feet. “Leliana’s spies will be in place by tomorrow morning, and their ravens will return before nightfall. The Orlesian army is already en route, and our suppliers stand ready to provision their journey. Cullen’s people will join up with them before they head south. Bull and Krem have the Chargers raring to go, I have a full stock of elixirs ready, Morrigan is-”

He takes her hands and stops her. “Arya. Stop. Come here and breathe.” He pulls her down to sit beside him on the couch.

Her fingers are tense and cold, and she stares at him, all authoritative Inquisitor. “Will you come with me while we search for this eluvian?” she demands.

“Of course,” he says. He squeezes her hands, trying to infuse some warmth into them. “I’ll always be by your side. You know that.” 

Her mask suddenly falls away, exposing a heartbreaking mixture of hope and disbelief painted across her face, and Blackwall barely has a moment to take it in before the Inquisitor reappears. “Good,” she says brusquely. “I’ll bring Solas along as well; his knowledge of elven lore will be invaluable. I can’t decide if Bull or Cassandra would be-” 

“Arya,” he interrupts gruffly. He’s close to choking on his own regrets, and Cole’s words are rattling around his mind: _She needs this flood to heal._ “I will never leave your side again, not unless you command me to go. Do you understand that?” 

She falls silent and averts her eyes. Her fingers are stiff in his hands. “You can’t promise that,” she says.

“I can,” he says, and she finally looks at him, her attention captured by the vehemence of his tone. He stares into the clear pools of her amethyst eyes. They’ll soon be facing the biggest battle they’ve ever seen together; Blackwall knows the stakes, he knows what’s at risk, and if ever there was a time to say all the words that have been clamouring at the back of his tongue for weeks, it’s now. 

“I should never have left you the way I did,” he says. “It was cruel. It was… I was a fucking fool. I can’t imagine what you must have thought-” 

“I didn’t know what to think!” she suddenly yells. She pushes herself to her feet and glares at him. “I thought… I thought you used me. Maybe you had another woman somewhere, or a secret family…” She trails off and rubs her nose, and Blackwall can’t stop himself; an incredulous burst of amusement escapes his chest. 

“Another woman? _Me?_ When would I have found another woman while wandering around in the woods for years?” 

Arya’s face is turning adorably red - whether with fury or embarrassment, he can’t be sure. “How could I have known that?” she snaps. “You left me no information. You left me _nothing_. And then it turns out you ran off to have yourself executed.” Blackwall’s perplexed amusement abruptly disappears as a tear runs down her face. “What if Leliana hadn’t found that announcement about Mornay? What if we’d been even one day late? It was luck that we got to Val Royeaux when we did!” 

She’s shouting now, her fists clenched and her face twisted with rage. “You left me, Blackwall. After everything we had, you left me and you would have died without telling me _why!_ How could you think I would just… get over it? You didn’t think I loved-” 

She clamps her lips shut and turns away, her arms wrapped tight around her middle. Blackwall rises to his feet, his heart pounding with a combination of anticipation and distress. The word she said, that word she bit back, it’s the one that’s been burning his tongue for months, and he wants to be the one to properly say it first. It’s the least he can do, the least she deserves. 

He strides around to face her and takes hold of her arms. “Arya, I-” 

She wrenches away from his grip. “I gave you _everything,_ ” she yells. “I held nothing back from you. I’ve been in this completely since the very start. I trusted you, you stubborn asshole, and you gave me _lies_ and then you left me. You left me,” she screams, then sobs and covers her face with her hands. 

He pulls her to his chest and wraps his arms around her, his heart aching sympathetically in time with the wracking of her body. He cradles the back of her neck in one palm and kisses the top of her head. “I was wrong,” he says, his voice quiet and fierce. “I handled it badly, and I’m sorry.” 

She chokes out a caustic little laugh and weakly pounds his chest. “You’re sorry,” she spits mockingly. “You’d rather have died than stay with me and tell the truth, and all you can say is you’re _sorry?_ ” 

He ignores her feebly striking fists and holds her tight; he’s not letting her go, not this time. He can see his missteps clearly now, and he knows she’s right, but it’s more than that. Blackwall is not the man she thinks he is. She thinks he lied because didn’t love her enough to stay, but she’s wrong. He loves her so fucking much, and he needs to convince her of this. 

“I was a coward,” he agrees. “I ran away rather than telling the truth, but it’s not what you think. I… you deserve better,” he blurts gracelessly. “I’m just a man with a stained past, and-”

“I don’t _care_ about your fucking past,” she snaps angrily. “All that matters is what you do now.”

He presses his lips to her cheekbone to hush her. “I know,” he whispers. “I know that now. But I didn’t know it then, and I didn’t want… I was afraid you’d be disgusted by me.” The words are hard and painful to say, and they scrape his chest like knives. 

“That’s stupid,” Arya retorts, but her voice is softer, the edge of anger smoothing away bit by bit. She presses her cheek against his chest, and a burst of heartbreaking tenderness makes his throat ache. 

“I have so little to give you, my lady,” he murmurs. “I have my sword and shield, and those are yours to command. But from the moment I laid eyes on you, my heart has always been yours. It’s not much, but it’s yours.” 

She sobs again, but she’s pliant against his chest, and he gently wipes her tears from her tattooed cheeks. “I love you, Arya,” he says fiercely. “More than life itself. I’ll never lie to you again, and I’ll never leave your side. I love you.” 

Her shoulders relax, and she slides her arms around him in a loose embrace. He presses his lips to her temple in a gentle kiss. “I love you,” he whispers again. 

Cole was right; saying the words is like a dam breaking, and he can suddenly breathe easier as the weight is lifted from his chest. He keeps her close with one arm around her waist, but he tilts her chin up with his other hand and gazes into her eyes. “I love you,” he tells her softly. It feels so good to finally say it, and every recitation is like a shadow leaving his heart.

Her face is blotchy, her eyes reddened with tears, and she’s never been more beautiful. “I love you. Do you believe me?” he asks. 

She swallows hard, then nods her head. “Yes,” she whispers, and a tiny smile lifts her lips. 

He smiles back at her, and she smiles more widely still, then _laughs_.

It’s a watery sound, tremulous and tight with the remainders of her tears, but it’s a genuine laugh nonetheless, and Blackwall missed the sound so very, very much. Relief pounds through him, ratcheting up his already pounding pulse, and he kisses her smiling lips.

She parts her lips eagerly and nips at his lower lip, and he savours the feel of her mouth as it slides over his. She wraps her arms around his neck and delves her tongue into his mouth, her body flush to his, and he clutches her close and welcomes the heat of her tongue. It’s been so long since they kissed like this, a proper lingering kiss with the hard press of lips and the twining of tongues, and Blackwall is so damned relieved. 

She breaks from his kiss and hastily starts shedding her clothes, her breaths short and desperate as she flings her gloves and vest aside. Her haste is contagious, and Blackwall starts to pull off his own coat and gloves, but he’s thoroughly distracted by her. She’s naked from the waist up, her breasts bobbing as she impatiently kicks her boots aside and drags her trousers off. Before he can do more than shuck off his coat and and shirt, she leaps at him and wraps her legs around his waist. 

He catches her weight easily and tilts his chin up, and she kisses him ferociously. Her ankles are locked at the small of his back, her fingers tugging his hair and her breasts pressed to his chest, and Blackwall is so damned happy he could cry. She’s his Arya again, all uninhibited heat and passion, and he missed her so damn much. 

He devours the sweetness of her mouth as he carries her to bed, then crawls onto the bed and carefully lays her on her back. Immediately she reaches for his belt. “Fuck me,” she breathes. 

He captures her hands. “Wait, Arya, slow down. I want…” He trails off as she arches her back, his attention snared by her perfect petite breasts. He drags his eyes to her face and tries again. “I missed you,” he begs. “Just... just let me look at you.”

He’s not making sense, and her golden nakedness isn’t helping him gather his thoughts. It’s not like they haven’t been together almost every night, but it’s different now. _He_ feels different now. He might not have fixed everything, but the words of love that he was hoarding in the depths of his throat have finally been freed, placed in her delicate palms for her to keep, and for the first time since he came back from Val Royeaux, Blackwall feels free.

He wants to savour this reunion, to take his time with her and show her how much he fucking loves her, but she’s his Arya, a voracious tempest of temptation, and the woman is used to taking what she wants from him. 

She boldly spreads her legs wider. “Look all you like. No one’s stopping you,” she quips, and his heart throbs with with fondness even as his cock jerks with lust. She’s teasing him, teasing him like she used to do, and by the Maker’s bloody balls, he missed her so damn much. 

He grapples with her until he has both her wrists in his left hand, then stretches her arms over her head. He supports himself on his left elbow and slides his right hand over her breast. Immediately she stops squirming and arches fiercely into his callused palm, her eyelids fluttering shut and her lips parting with pleasure. 

“I _will_ look, my lady,” he purrs. His greedy gaze roves over her body as he teases her nipple with his thumb. Her taut belly quivers with anticipation and her tender inner thighs are shining already with the sweet slickness of her arousal. He palms her breast firmly, then ducks his head and smoothes his tongue over her nipple. 

She mewls sweetly and bucks her hips, but Blackwall ignores her writhing; he swirls his tongue around her nipple, then tugs the tiny bud with his lips. When he hears her panting, he lifts his face and looks at her. 

Her cheeks are flushed pink, her lips cherry-red and lush. She’s the most exquisite thing he’s ever seen, the most exquisite thing that’s ever happened to him, and he stares at her face in complete adoration as he pinches her nipple before slowly trailing his fingers over her sternum and down over her navel. 

Her breaths are sharp and shallow, each exhale punctuated by a breathy whimper, and he stores the sound in his memory like the most precious treasure. His fingers stroke carefully through her chestnut curls until they’re at the threshold of her heat, and he pauses. 

She gasps for breath, then opens her eyes and stares at him. “Blackwall, touch me,” she orders. Her voice is breathy with want, her wrists straining in his grip, and despite the demand in her voice, her eyes are wide and pleading. 

“As you command,” he growls. He slips his fingers lower to curve along the softness of her feminine folds, then lightly strokes the slick moisture there. 

She arches her back viciously, her arms straining with exertion as she tries to fight his grip. “Falon’Din’s fucking balls, Blackwall, just-!” 

He plunges two fingers inside of her and watches with relish as she throws her head back and cries out with surprise and ecstasy. Her hips buck against his hand, and he swirls his fingers in her tight heat for a moment before drawing his fingers free. 

Arya sobs with pleasure and spreads her legs wide, but before she can speak, he lightly strokes the swollen bud of her clit, and the effect is instantaneous: the frantic bucking of her body slows as he strokes the red-hot button of her pleasure. She cranes her neck to the side and arches slowly into the gentle stroke of his finger. 

Her eyes are squeezed shut, but Blackwall watches her hungrily. He slides his finger lightly around her clit, and she matches his rhythm with her hips, thrusting slow and sinuous against his hand. The tendon in her neck stands out like a banner, and he can’t help himself; he lowers his lips to her neck and nips the tempting line. 

She moans, a shivering harmony of sound that makes Blackwall’s cock surge in his trousers. “Yes,” she gasps, then bucks sharply against his hand. He straightens his fingers, and she gasps more loudly still, then rubs herself against the flat of his fingers. 

Blackwall is besotted. He’s completely lost in her: the taste of her neck against his tongue, the shimmering dew of sweat on her forehead, the hot moisture of her cleft, the wavelike undulation of her hips as she fucks his fingers. He watches carefully until she holds her breath, then at the moment that she inhales sharply in the peak of her pleasure, he bites her neck. 

“Oh _fuck,_ ” she wails, and Blackwall grins against her skin. _That’s_ his Arya, the delicate body of a rogue housing the bolshy mouth of a merc, and he kisses her carmine lips before sliding two fingers back inside of her and curling his fingers in a come-hither motion. 

She screams into his mouth and tugs viciously at her wrists, and finally Blackwall releases her. Immediately she slides one hand into his hair, and once she stops shuddering with her climax, she pulls his head back. “Sit back,” she pants. 

He watches her with abject devotion as she rises to her knees and shoves his chest until he’s sitting at the edge of the bed. Swift as a halla, she slides off the bed to her feet and tugs authoritatively at his belt. “Strip,” she commands. 

Blackwall obeys. His boots come off, followed by his belt and trousers, and Arya drags his smallclothes off before shoving him forcefully in the chest until he’s sitting again. Immediately she straddles him and wraps her fist in his hair, her other hand on his cock and guiding him towards her entrance. “Fuck me. Right now,” she orders. 

Blackwall obeys: he guides her hips into position, then firmly pulls her down onto his shaft. 

Her tight pussy envelops him in a hot embrace, and he groans with helpless ecstasy. She cuts off her own animalistic cry of pleasure by sinking her teeth into his throat, and Blackwall gasps with a mind-numbing mixture of pain and pleasure. With one hand on her lower back, he pulls her firmly against his hips. 

She digs her nails into his shoulders, her lips hot against his ear as she meets and matches his rhythm, and soon they’re fucking so ferociously that he can hardly catch his breath. Their skin slaps together with every thrust, and sweat pools in the notch at the base of her throat. His hands guide her as she slams against him, her hips rolling like a master horsedancer.

All the while, he can’t tear his eyes from her face. Her eyes are shut, her teeth clenched in a delicate snarl and her cheeks flushed with exertion, and Blackwall has never been happier. Every sorry moment of his sorry life was a step closer to this moment with this woman, and he realizes with a burst of clarity that he wouldn’t change a single choice he’s made if it meant not being with her. 

His heart swells and throbs with unbearable love as his climax roils and swells in his core. Arya grasps his face in her hands and kisses him hard, her tongue thrusting into his mouth with the same conviction as his cock in her exquisite pussy, and with a shudder and a groan he bursts, his arms tight around his woman as his rapture rolls over him. 

They slow down together, their sweat rendering them sticky and her breath hot on his temple. He contentedly trails his lips along her sternum while he catches his breath, and he can feel her heartbeat thundering against his mouth. A long moment later, she slowly slides off of him and collapses onto the pillows.

He gazes at her with a goofy grin. Her sweaty face is wreathed in a smile, her chest still heaving as she catches her breath, but she looks completely content. He drags himself over the bed to her side and flops down beside her, and she immediately rolls toward him and throws her leg across his body and tucks her head under his chin. 

A sudden burn of tears stings his eyes, and he lifts his gaze to the ceiling to blink them back. His Arya is sprawled across him, her fingers gently rubbing his earlobe, and he knows that they’re both finally home. 

They lie in comfortable silence, his hand idly stroking the line of her leg as he gazes with vacant happiness at the ceiling. Then she murmurs against his neck. “I love you too.” 

Her voice is quiet, and he feels the vibration of her words more than he hears them, but her tone is clear and confident, and Blackwall swallows hard around the lump of joy in his throat. 

Arya Lavellan is his shining light, the lantern that illuminates his nights and the sun that warms his days, and all Blackwall ever wanted was to be someone she could be proud of. Now, for the first time, with his lies rinsed away and their misunderstandings smoothed and sorted, he feels like he might be worthy of her love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm planning on writing a little epilogue for this piece once I finish my Baewall playthrough (I just finished up at Mythal's Temple), so stay tuned if you're interested! xo


	4. Epilogue

Blackwall heaves a happy sigh and wraps his arm around Arya’s waist. The war is won, and they’re safe. _She’s_ safe, and he can breathe again.

She nestles into his embrace, hooking an arm around his waist and tucking her head against his shoulder. Together they watch the sunset, admiring the blending shades of rose and orange as they meld into the bruised violet of night. A shimmering curtain of luminescence shivers across the sky, a wavering dance of pale white light against the sky’s darkening canvas, and Blackwall proudly decides that there’s no better testament to the Inquisitor’s work than this: a gentle white aurora like a scar across the healed rift of the sky. Like any scar, it’s a bittersweet mark, a reminder of hardship and loss and war, but also of victory and justice and _good_. And like any scar, the bitterness will fade in time, leaving mostly sweetness behind. 

He turns his head and brushes his lips against her temple, inhaling the warm fragrance of her hair. “What’s next for us, my lady?”

He feels the corners of her eyes crinkle with a smile. “Well, what did you have in mind, Ser Blackwall?”

Her voice is warm and loose, lacking the ever-present tension that’s plagued her for the past few weeks. He gently pulls her to face him. “A house?” he suggests casually. “A dog? D’you think that mark of yours can be used for cooking eggs?” 

He watches her face carefully as he speaks, alert for her reaction. He’s half-joking, but only half; it’s been a year since they met, a year that he’s guarded her back and fought by her side and loved every damned inch of her. Blackwall knows what he wants; he knows what she means to him, and he knows that he’ll never want another. 

An encouraging grin lights her face and highlights the charming dimple in her left cheek, but Blackwall knows his Arya’s face, and he sees the distance in her orchid-coloured eyes. “Or we could just continue as we are. No eggs necessary,” he hastily backtracks.

“No, no,” she says quickly. “Eggs sound good.” She rubs her forehead distractedly. 

Blackwall frowns. “You all right, love?”

She squeezes her eyes shut and grimaces, and when she opens them again, Blackwall _swears_ he can almost see shadows behind her violet irises.

Alarmed, he cups her jaw with one hand and stares intensely into her eyes, but when she blinks, the shadows are gone. Perhaps they were never really there.

Arya sighs. “I’m fine,” she murmurs. “It’s just... the Vir’Abelasan. The whispers. They’re… Cole was right. It’s a lot to handle sometimes.” 

Blackwall’s brow furrows even more worriedly. “What’s happening? What are they doing to you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Arya says soothingly. “I’ll get used to it. I’m getting used to it.” 

Blackwall doesn’t smile. She’s prevaricating and minimizing like she does when she gets injured in the field. “What can I do?” he demands. 

Arya smiles at him again and shakes her head. “Nothing,” she repeats gently. “I’m fine.”

He cups her face with both hands. “Arya,” he says firmly. “I want to help. What can I do?”

Her smile fades into seriousness. “Kiss me.”

Despite his worry, a fish-leap of pleasure jolts his belly. He gives her an uncertain half-smile. “You’re just saying what I want to hear,” he accuses. 

Arya shakes her head gravely. “I’m not. It feels… My head is full of ancient times, ancient memories, all this old knowledge… With the whispers, it’s hard to tell what’s what sometimes.” She gazes at him seriously. “Remind me what’s real. I want to feel something real. Kiss me,” she whispers. 

Blackwall needs no second bidding. With his hands cradling the smooth column of her neck, he obeys her command. 

She leans into his chest, her hands sliding from his waist to his back, and he savours the slender press of her body and the tender press of her lips against his. She sighs against his mouth, a soft exhale of relief that he’s only too happy to accept. 

Her tongue traces a delicate path along his lower lip, leading the way for her lips to follow. Her kiss is gentle and slow, and Blackwall follows suit, nipping gently at the plumpness of her lips and tasting the honey of her tongue in a careful caress. He thinks back to their first kiss, that first desperate crash of passion when he realized he couldn’t stay away from her. It stands in his mind like a glittering shard: her first moment of unequivocal acceptance, that first moment when she told him she wouldn’t let him go. 

This slow and tender kiss couldn’t be more different than their first, but Blackwall is just as tightly bound to her as he ever was. She’s the fire that lights his spirit and the chant of hope that greets his days. She called him her shield and her shelter, and that’s what he’ll be until the Maker steals him from her side. 

They sway together like in a dream, merged together more closely than the pieces of a puzzle box. His fingers are nimble and light, loosening her scarf, slipping her buttons free, and her clothing falls away piece by piece like autumn leaves. 

They drift toward the bed, a trail of vestments in their wake. She slides onto the sheets, her eyes locked on his, but for once there’s no trace of mischief in her face; she smiles at him, her expression warm and inviting, and he eagerly joins her. His hands glide over her skin, soft and smooth as silk, decorated with bruises from their encounter with Corypheus. The bruises are evidence of a battle fought and won, and he gives the marks their just due, honouring them with fingers and tongue. 

His lips brush over her nipple, and Arya arches sweetly against his mouth. Her back is curved like the elven bow she handles so masterfully, and he slides his hands reverently along the gentle slopes of her waist and the jutting angle of her hips. A sheen of nectar collects between her thighs, and Blackwall drinks greedily of her taste. They drank freely at the party, a cascade of Orlesian wine and Marcher ale, but only _she_ can quench this thirst.

She lifts her hips to his mouth, offering herself openly to his tongue. He savours her flesh with the tip of his tongue, sliding deep and curling carefully around her clit. Her pussy is the finest vintage in all of Thedas, and only _he_ has the honour of tasting its delectable depths.

She shudders and mewls sweetly, her fingers in his hair, and Blackwall laps greedily at her warmth until she tugs his hair pleadingly. He rises up to join her, and in the blink of an eye, the space of a single breath, they’re joined together, her leg around his waist and her fingers clutching his arms. 

Her mouth is hot and yielding, and he sinks into her kiss without hesitation. Her skin is hot as they slide together, chest to chest and palm to palm, her leg pulling him close in a slow and intimate grind. Her soft and needy moan bleeds into his lips, but her body is loose and languid, rocking against him lightly like low tide, and Blackwall vaguely realizes that it’s never been like this before. They’ve always come together like a storm, a tempest of unstoppable passion, but their loving now is heavy and deep, an unrelenting ocean of ardour. As he tastes her collarbone and presses deep inside of her, the reason for the difference slowly dawns on him. 

They have time now. The threat of war seasoned their love with an aftertaste of desperation, a hint of this-may-be-the-last, but now with the world safe and his Inquisitor in his arms, they have all the time the world can give them. 

He tilts her chin up and thrusts into her yielding heat. “I love you,” he breathes. 

She slowly opens her amethyst eyes, and he’s pleased to find them clear and bright as day. “I love you, too,” she whispers. 

She smiles, a bursting of happiness across her face, and he grins helplessly in return. They roll across the bed, their fingers twined together as she rises above him. He stares greedily at the exquisite lines of her body as she stretches and grinds against him. Her nails mark his chest in slow scoring lines, her nipples deepening to a raspberry flush as he praises them with his fingers. They flex together, his hips rising to meet her as she rides the wave of their rapture to its shimmering peak. 

She kisses him hard as they come, their cries of pleasure melding in breathy harmony. Afterwards, they lounge together in the aftermath, her mouth against his neck and his thigh trapped beneath her leg. They watch idly as stars sprinkle the sky outside her balcony, and when sleep drifts in to find them, it’s with the promise of peace on the horizon. 

Blackwall isn’t sure what the future holds. There’s so much more for the Inquisition to do, and he’s sure the peace won’t last; such is the way of men, after all. But he doesn’t mind. With his Dalish lover by his side, Blackwall has everything he needs to stand strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Blackwall actually does say "you all right, love?" in the game if you romance him. It didn't happen to me (I did too much of a speed run), but [here's a clip of it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uorKdg_JIjc) JUST KILL ME WITH FEELS, OK? 
> 
> For anyone who read this... thank you for stopping by! I am [PIkapeppa on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if you would like to talk about Beardy Baewall with me :3


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